bad poetry is like bunnies but with less fur and shorter ears

i have spent all of one old,
distinguished benjamin franklin,
his eyes twinkling that founding light
beneath half-moons,
on books filled with poetry,
all poetry,
all lyrics and songsofthesoul
and i can not wait to lose myself,
forget my body, only words, my mind,
in their pages.

today my mother stood in the bed of our new truck,
dressed in a pink bathrobe,
my old work visor, still needs to be returned,
upside down on her head,
and her seeing cane in one hand,
a bowl filled with holy water in the other.
she poured it on the truck and we intoned its new name.
sunday afternoon car christening whimsy
is when i remember how much i love my mother.

let me write my bad poetry and you can't paint the world whatever color you want

when i read poetry,
feel the soul of another reaching out,
through the dead trees of history,
i remember what my goals are,
where i'm longing to go,
what i wish to become,
to have, to know,
and i realize:
my gosh, i am pathetic and i will never make it.
but then my ADD takes over and i run
to paint circles on my belly.

last night i took nyquil
and woke up in the dark
to find an alien had taken over my body
and i had six fingers on my right hand.
i fell back asleep, only to awaken again to find:
i'm insane and drugs don't help that.

i think i'm in like.
with you perhaps, or maybe you.
no, wait, that's it:
it's love.
the feeling down my spine,
the glow in my cheeks,
the wit on my tongue.
that's love, and i like it.
can you be in like with love?

pshaw!

my head is all clammy and closed off
i think it stilted senctences
and breathe from my mouth
my hands are freezing,
my feet too hot,
and i think i have a cold.

i like imaigining where i'd be
if i were at school today.
is it fourth period yet?
or am i still in child dev.,
learning about the reproductive cycle?
what did i miss at lunch,
what clever jokes could i have made,
which now must flow through and out my mind
untill another day,
perhaps tomorrow,
when i shall go to school.

my phone is dead
and i feel like someone has cut off my hand
my right hand, no less, leaving me
only the dirty left.
what time is it:? i don't know.
what am i supposed to do today?
i don't know.
i hate this life.

bad poetry two: versus the snow monster of tibet

i have made a decision.
it is rather like a pickle.
crisp, fresh, brined with brilliance.
and delicious in my mouth.
here is to decisions and pickles,
the stuffs of the good life.

every time i make a decision that means something--
something that will change me, for the best,
i feel like a phoenix, bursting forth from ashes, old,
into a chirping naked chick, new,
and like this metaphor, my decision may be cliche
but it means something to me.

i love you jennith.
i do, i do.
this poem is narcisstic
and so are you.

ooooh you rogue, bad poetry!

people are silly
that's the great secret of mankind.
who needs relgion, who needs philosophy
i've figured it out,
and i'm offering it free on myspace:
people are silly.

i'm a bubble of delight again,
a ball of cotton fluff,
sneezing with distaste at my own glee
smiling and giggling at another's smile.
i've been fixed, finally,
and, no, he doesn't look a thing like jesus.